ten years. [lrh]

eighteen.

hello vote for this chapter to instantly remove calum's exposed pricetag xx

"Yeah, I'm leaving now. No, there's no traffic. No, I- stop. No, I won't be late. Clara, for Christ's sa- just use the public toilet! I'm coming. I'm coming. Can you hear the engine? That's me on my way. I'm hanging up- just wait. I'm hanging up now. Bye. Bye, Clara."

Luke threw his phone over his shoulder, where it landed on the backseat. His wife's bird-cry of a voice still managed to rip through his 8's poor speakers, and he turned the volume dial of his music player until it jerked to a stop, until Talking Heads ate his head (and his ears) more than she did.

The events that had rolled out less than three hours ago played over and over in Luke's mind. Amanda stood true to her word and left via taxi before he could really say goodbye. It was shocking, to say the least, because it all felt so unreal. The second Luke heard the main door slam shut, he ran as fast as his legs could up the stairs and into Clara's room, hoping, praying, that she'd still be there, waiting for him to drop her off himself.

Instead, the room was empty, looking just as it had before he met Amanda again. There was no trace left. Nothing to remember her by.

Now, Luke was on his way to the airport by himself to pick up the woman he was supposed to love, in a car with speakers that were seconds away from bursting.

"Maybe she's still there," Luke tried to say, to no one in particular. The music (Spanish Bombs by The Clash, this time) cut his voice in half, so he shouted louder.

"MAYBE. SHE'S. STILL. THERE."

No one responded except for a woman in the car beside him, peering over her open window with anxious eyes. Spanish Bombs continued to fight him, chewing, gnawing, nibbling at every one of Luke's nerves.

Overwhelmed and exhausted, Luke wanted to cry. God, he wanted to cry so badly. He hadn't cried in so long, because he simply wasn't allowed to. There was always an eye on him, wherever he went. If he were to let out even a single tear, shitty tabloids that people would read to find out what type of pancake they'd be would come flying out with his face on the front page, hammered with an assumption that could wreck his career.

Small (insignificant, even) steps, big footprints.

"Maybe, she's still there." Luke let out a shaky breath and unconsciously pressed his foot harder on the accelerator. He passed traffic light after traffic light, eventually earning a parking space in front of the International Departures & Arrivals gate.

Maybe her flight delayed. Maybe it got cancelled. Or maybe she got the times mixed up. Maybe...

Luke knew he couldn't expect much. This wasn't a movie, was it? Amanda wasn't waiting for him at the gate, as her seat number gets called. She wasn't checking the time every two minutes, following a Nicholas Sparks script that ensures their happy ending.

Luke didn't get a happy ending. Luke had Clara.

Fuck. Clara. Fucking Clara.

Luke got out from his car and yanked a hoodie over the top of his head as he made his way to the main doors. Two in the afternoon proved to be a busy time, and within minutes he found himself searching for his wife in vain. I'm never gonna hear the end of this.